A SONNET FOR PALE DAYS

Lift up your heart-stricken heads,

all you born of the Lion’s brazen word. 

All you who gave their dreams to the pride of death 

shalt know the planted seed of our stout defiance 

of sick curs and stuttered prayer for our sour passions. 

To speak easy while drenched in the warm love-light 

cannot be promised but only harshly learned 

through the calm patience of cold sweat 

and the embittered fruit of pale chosen days. 

Soft pipes will play on ever tenderly here 

in these times of the peaceful plague of moths 

and the throes of sharp tips need be felt for the 

implosion of the Eagle’s ever devouring shame. 

An undesirable prophecy paid for with easy danger.